


Equo Ne Credite

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [5]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Loves Magnus Bane, Good Boyfriend Magnus Bane, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magnus Bane Loves Alec Lightwood, Panic Attacks, Subversions of mythologies and legends, Unicorns, Virginity, a little dark, but also bittersweet?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 06:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17555576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: Here's the thing about unicorns:They aren't these frilly, glowing white angelic horsies.





	Equo Ne Credite

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing too gruesome, but trigger warnings are listed in the tags and also in the end note.
> 
> This is closely linked to my other fics 'Ius Primae Noctis' and 'Noli Me Tangere'. You don't necessarily have to read either of them to understand, but they would help this make more sense.  
> Title comes from the Aeneid and translates to "don't trust the horse" (referring to the Trojan Horse).

Here’s the thing about unicorns:

They aren’t these frilly, glowing white angelic horsies for someone to frolic around with in some flower-studded field. Rather, they’re these horrifically foul bulls with gnashing teeth and a cruelly sharpened horn, stamping hooves that tear up the ground beneath them. The shorn fur along their heaving flanks is white, but it is not the white of purity; instead it is the pallor of death. Sickly white, the shade of bleached bone and drowned bodies. They reek of decaying flesh and rotten corpses, deep earth filled with worms, the sharp incense of embalmed bodies. Their breath is hot like fire and curdles the tiny hairs on the back of the neck. Their eyes are dark and soulless, horrific harbingers of suffering and bereavement.

From what Clary and Simon have learned in the past months, all of the legends are true. But that doesn’t mean that all of the legends are _accurate_. Or even remotely close, for that matter. Hell, not even _all_ of the legends are true; Simon still has yet to find any solid evidence that would indicate the existence of zombies, and he’s a tad disappointed for it.

But, regardless of how factual Grimm’s fairy tales are, they have a murderous rampaging bull unicorn – unicorn bull? – loose in New York City. It’s hardly been three days since the creature somehow escaped from the land of the fae, and yet it has already sent seventeen people to an early grave. Each victim has been brutally gouged by the single wickedly curved horn upon the beast’s forehead, their bodies left in a mangled state. Most of the time, the killing blow has been…

Well, it’s admittedly a bit on the nose. Especially given the whole _‘unicorns preferring the company of virgins’_ deal. Turns out that unicorns don’t necessarily _prefer_ virgins so much as they really, _really_ hate people that _aren’t_ virgins. As in, the unicorn is murdering people who the team of shadowhunters and downworlders are fairly certain must have had sex at some point. All adults, most of them with children (of the biological variety) or with a well-known reputation for sleeping around. And to make matters even better, the killing blow is a razor-sharp, twenty-three-inch horn impaled straight up the anus.

Magnus has been cooped up in his loft for the better part of the last three days; both because of his expertise in uncommon knowledge and his wide collection of seelie literature, but also due to Alec’s thinly veiled anxiety over Magnus wandering the streets of New York. If they have a violent creature running around killing people who happen to have had a good deal of sex. Well. Magnus may be a very tempting target. He’s faced a good deal of _slut-shaming_ before, but he never quite expected it to come from a unicorn, of all things.

But, alas, such is the way of the world, sometimes.

So he’s sat in his apothecary, his desk littered with open tomes and unrolled scrolls and even a few etched stone tablets. His eyes burn from reading ancient dialects and from parsing through the ever-convoluted meaning behind old seelie poetry, and he can feel the growing strain in his back from being in the same position for hours – days? – on end. Thus far, his thorough search has proved fruitless. Unicorns, such as they are, have never been abundant, not by a long shot, even preceding the advent of nephilim and their tendency to hunt magical beings into near-extinction. Not even some of the oldest fey records – or, at least, the oldest that he has access too, which may not even be all that old in comparison – hold more than passing remarks about the creatures.

But he cannot rest until he has found an answer to their problems. He’s exhausted and sore and more than a bit cranky from the whole ordeal, but he must play his own part, just as his ragtag band of companions are playing theirs. Isabelle is in a similar position to his own, trapped in the bowels of the Institute, where she’s busy dissecting what’s left of the victims and attempting to piece together some sort of clue to help them. It’s a rather gruesome job, and Magnus doesn’t envy the Lightwood girl in the slightest; however, Isabelle seems uncommonly thrilled by the unprecedented opportunity.

The problem, Magnus will allow, is that the Shadow World has many issues. The sort of issues which those affected by them are very loathe to admit. Even Magnus does not like to admit such things out loud; but he, at least, can do so in the sanctity of his own mind. Between all the horror and fear and hatred of their world, those that inhabit the shadowy side of existence tend to lean more heavily upon what many would consider detrimental vices: alcohol, drugs, sex. You name it, the Shadow World has an unhealthy attachment to it. Quite frankly, while Magnus himself may be a _prime_ target for the slut-shaming unicorn, he is hardly the _only_ target among the collection of shadowhunters and downworlders who are attempting to defeat the creature.

In fact, the vast majority of them are down for the count.

The real number, of course, depends entirely upon the definition of _virgin_. An ambiguous term, one that Magnus has never put any stock into except in jest, and a term that is completely dependent upon society and its norms. To put it in the common vernacular of the modern world: it’s a social construct. And, considering that the unicorn in question hails from the realm of the fae, the meaning is even _more_ elusive.

They don’t even know what the stipulations are for the beast’s assault. It could be any number of definitions of _sex_ : orgasm with another person, orgasm _from_ another person, penetration, touching of another’s genitals, having one’s genitals touched. There are too many possible options for what _loss of virginity_ could be counted as. Although he doesn’t agree to the perception of virginity, in this case he does have his own beliefs upon the matter. More than _anything_ , he believes that the whole _losing of one’s virginity_ can only ever be a consensual affair. He prays to every god above that the unicorn shares such a belief.

His darling Alexander is on the ground, directing and running patrols alongside his people and attempting to prevent the unicorn from murdering any more innocents. And it worries Magnus – terrifies him, even – to think that Alec could maybe, possibly, potentially, face the wrath of the fey creature at any given point. He wouldn’t even know; Alec has to stay focused and can’t afford to give any routine check-ins, and Magnus isn’t on friendly enough terms with the majority of the shadowhunters under Alec’s authority, meaning that none of them will dare contact him with updates.

He’s left in the dark, stewing away lost in his own thoughts, and worry nearly threatens to drown him. The pages before him swim in his eyesight, and he has to blink away tears of fatigue and anxiety just to keep going. He’s been this barely held together mess for _days_ and he’s exhausted from it. All Magnus wants is for them to finally capture the beast, for Alexander to return to the safety of his loft, for them to curl up in their bed with Alec’s head tucked under Magnus’ chin and the younger man’s limbs wrapped around him. But they both have a job to do, a duty to their city and the people within it. They can’t rest until the matter is dealt with.

Somehow, after days on end of frazzled research, Magnus turns to a page in some unnamed seelie tome and stumbles upon a worn picture. The image is faded and nearly intelligible from its age, but if he looks closely enough he can make out the deathly pallor of a bull, a single wickedly gleaming horn protruding from his forehead. The bull is juxtaposed against another image, but its companion is worn away almost in its entirety. All he can make out is a similarly frightening horn mirroring it, this one a faded black as opposed to the unicorn’s white.

Beside the picture is a short paragraph. It’s in some ancient seelie dialect that has since been eradicated; Magnus knows maybe a few hundred words in the language, but he skims the unfamiliar letters in hopes that he can garner _any_ sort of information. Mid-way through, he identifies the word _‘white’_ and he can only assume that it refers to the bull they are currently dealing with. In the next sentence is a short phrase that he can maybe translate. It’s either _‘corruption of death’_ or _‘death of corruption’_. Maybe, as the seelies so often enjoy, it means _both_.

Orgasms have, historically, been referred to as ‘little deaths’. And if such deaths lead to corruption, then perhaps that corruption is what the unicorn senses. Death of corruption, meaning the death of those corrupted by little deaths? Magnus isn’t sure. It seems too ambiguous of a phrase, but ancient texts are _never_ clear-cut, and he’s translated enough tomes to understand that it’s quite possibly the best explanation that they will get.

Just as he’s ruminating over his new potential knowledge, his phone rings. The sound is muffled from where the phone was tossed carelessly on the couch in the living room, and Magnus would typically just ignore the intrusion. But the ringtone is specific to only one person, the one person that he will never be able to ignore the call from, and he summons his phone and accepts the call without a moment’s hesitation.

_“It’s not about sex,”_ his Alexander blurts out before Magnus can even greet him. _“At least, I don’t think it is.”_

To any other, Alec would sound a bit breathless, perhaps stressed from the situation and exhausted from the near-constant patrols he’s been running and organizing. But Magnus knows the nuances of his nephilim’s tone, and he can hear the stark anxiety and the tremor of barely concealed anger in his voice. All it does is make Magnus’ worry spike to a dangerous level. It probably isn’t so healthy for both of them to be the habitual worriers that they are.

“What do you mean?” he asks, swallowing back his own concern and slipping into business just as Alec has.

_“Luke was searching through police databases and he found a connection,”_ the shadowhunter explains shortly, but cuts off abruptly.

After a few seconds of uncharacteristic silence, Magnus speaks up. “Angel, what’s wrong?” he murmurs, adopting a softness that he only shows those dearest to him. More and more, it’s a side that Alec has been privy to.

_“Magnus,”_ he chokes out, and the warlock can almost feel the tension of his Alexander holding tears back. _“Nine of the victims were registered sex offenders. Another three were accused but never convicted.”_

The words fall heavily from the flimsy device in Magnus’ hand. It’s easy to assume the truth behind the remaining five victims; sexual predators who never faced punishment for their actions. Magnus’ blood _boils_ , and suddenly he wants nothing more than to cheer the murderous beast on. Let it rampage through the city and dispose of such vile monsters. He wouldn’t even feel a lick of guilt for endorsing the punishment.

But he knows that Alexander would. The shadowhunter has an adherence to justice that is at most times admirable, and at other times impossibly frustrating. But it isn’t Magnus’ place to stop Alec’s quest for justice. Perhaps it is better form to imprison monsters than to just slaughter them. Right to a trial, and all that jazz.

The passage he just skimmed over returns to the forefront of his mind. Corruption, not in the sense of _sex_ but in the sense of _abuse_. Death of corruption. Well-warranted, if one were to ask him. But his own beliefs do not matter, not at present. His focus sharpens entirely to the shallow sound of Alec’s breaths over the phone. They’re too quick, too rattling. Magnus is intimately aware of the signs of Alec’s impending panic attack.

“Alexander, listen to me,” he calls, not letting his worry or anxiety or fury leak out into his voice. “You need to breathe, darling. In for five, out for five.” He begins counting, a steady soothing rhythm, talking Alexander down from the panic that laces through his blood. Although not frequent, this system has earned its usage a good number of times between the two of them; they seem to take turns in the separate roles.

Eventually, Alec chokes in a breath that is mostly stable. _“I’m okay,”_ he says. It doesn’t sound convincing, and Magnus is already gearing up to pamper Alexander more than usual when they finally finish dealing with the whole affair. _“Have you found anything on how to stop it?”_ Alec asks.

Magnus knows the distraction tactic for what it is, recognizes it from his own repertoire of unhealthy coping mechanisms. He wants nothing more than to wrap the poor man up in the softest blankets and portal him away from the chaos of New York. Maybe they could finally take that weekend trip to Kaua’i that Magnus has been wheedling Alec about. But now is not the time for vacations, nor even for indulging his boyfriend, much as Magnus may want.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” he’s loathe to admit. Alexander is out there facing some murderous unicorn and people are dying and his research has thus far offered him nothing more substantial than a child’s storybook. “Just the same old plug about them being calmed by the ‘untouched’.”

_“If it’s fey, we could use iron to hold it,”_ Alec suggests. He hesitates before adding quietly, _“we have chains at the Institute. If we can manage to trap it, we’ll be able to detain the creature.”_

The part of Magnus that loves knowledge above all else, the scholar and the inventor, flinches away at the thought of such a rare and unknown creature facing a cruel fate. A far larger part of himself, the High Warlock of Brooklyn and the supportive boyfriend of the Head of the New York Institute, insists that such measures are necessary given the circumstances.

He relents. “If we manage to hold it steady, I can open a portal and we can banish it from this realm.”

He can hear other voices in the background and Alec pulls the phone away to issue out some curt orders. _“Luke’s pack just had a sighting in Williamsbridge. Can you meet me?”_ Alec rattles off a street corner and Magnus is conjuring up a portal even before they end their call.

When he steps through, he’s at the entrance of an alley. Further down, he can see the familiar cut of his Alexander’s figure, the slope of his shoulders and the stoic line of his spine. He’s giving orders to a band of shadowhunters, voice sharp and succinct. While he’s busy commanding, a single nephilim breaks from the others and walks over towards Magnus. It isn’t any of the handful of shadowhunters that Magnus is actually comfortable around, but he’s seen the woman’s face enough times in passing to recognize her.

She offers a polite but curt nod and a simple _‘Mr. Bane’_ in greeting. He doesn’t dwell on her lack of manners. Rather, given the harried circumstances and the customs of her people, he’s actually pleasantly surprised by the modicum of respect she shows. He feels pride warm in his chest; the steady improvement in the relations between shadowhunters and downworlders is largely due to the efforts of his own dear Alexander.

The woman hands him a small black device that he vaguely realizes is an earpiece. She doesn’t offer him an explanation, but he doesn’t need one. The earpiece seems to be of a newer model than he last remembers; the design is sleek, smaller and lighter, and yet less fragile. He wonders, idly, if it’s one of Isabelle’s newest editions to the shadowhunter toolbox. Ever since being promoted to weapons master of the Institute, she and Alec have been bouncing ideas around nonstop trying to improve patrol protocol.

When he inserts the device into his ear, he’s suddenly bombarded with the concise militaristic chatter of shadowhunters in the thick of their duty. It’s almost sensory overload to deal with the multitude of codes and numbers that he doesn’t quite understand. Alexander has explained a few of the more common ones, but he’s never much had the mind necessary for the strict and regimented tactics of militant forces.

Even so, he can follow along as Alec barks out orders and his people snap to it. Although it has often been misguided and abused, even Magnus must admit to some admiration for their cruel efficiency. No other race in the Shadow World can compare to the highly trained and brutally disciplined ranks; only the seelie knights ever come close, and even then it’s a distant comparison.

Isabelle and Clary are coming from the west, Jace and Simon from the east, Luke and his pack from the south. They’re going to attempt to herd the unicorn as they work towards each other; hopefully, the creature will get caught between all four of their teams and they’ll be able to bind it.

They set off at a grueling pace and Magnus is silently quite glad that he’s always been insistent on staying in shape. Even so, the majority of the shadowhunters with them branch off and dash away and Magnus could never even hope to keep up with them. He stays by Alec’s side, and they coordinate with the other teams as they steadily gain ground.

He feels pulled in too many directions. One part of his brain is still turning over the meaning of the meager passages he’d managed to translate, another part is intently watching the tension in the stiffness of Alexander’s gait, all while he’s internally running through the steps for the banishing spell he will have to perform. It’s almost overwhelming, like a tidal wave that threatens to crash down over him. As if somehow, impossibly, sensing his distress, Alec looks at him over his shoulder; a simple gaze, soft-eyed and understanding in a way that Magnus can’t even _fathom_ , is enough to settle his nerves back down. He can only hope that his own presence does the same for _Alec_.

Their plan is, admittedly, not the most foolproof. They have minimal information to work off of, they probably don’t have enough people in each group, and their success is largely dependent upon the unicorn actually complying.

Predictably, everything goes to shit.

They’re narrowing in on the creature, they only have one neighborhood between all of their teams. All they need to do is corner the beast, toss the chains upon it, and then Magnus will step in and finish the process of banishment. Instead, the unicorn turns out to be no longer content with gouging rapists and molesters. It manages to maul four shadowhunters before Alec and Magnus arrive. The scene they discover is gruesome; blood is everywhere, body parts have been flung about, and the remaining shadowhunters and werewolves involved are attempting to simultaneously avoid and attack the violent beast.

Magnus falls into the familiar flow of battle, lets his blood sing with the heat of Edom as he cuts through the air with his magic. Through the confusion of constant movement and the plethora of shouted orders, he finds himself separated from Alec. He isn’t exceptionally worried; Alec is one of the best fighters he’s ever seen, and the shadowhunter knows his way around a battle. Those facts don’t entirely reassure him – he’s seen too many good fighters die in combat to be fully at ease – but it’s enough for him to continue on with his own tasks.

Every last drop of his focus flees when he hears Jace scream Alec’s name.

He pivots just in time to see Alec – _his Alexander_ – collapsed on the ground, his bow skittering across the pavement. The unicorn is rushing right for him. It’s bloodied hooves shake the very ground as it advances, faster than any shadowhunter could counter. Without thought, Magnus digs deep, deep, _deep_ within himself, to the very foundations of scorched Earth and fiery brimstone that taste of sulfur on his tongue. His magic leaps to his will immediately, and he gathers it – burning and _red_ like blood – in his fingers.

But right before he hurls his fury, to incinerate the foul beast before it can even _touch_ his Alexander, the creature just… _stops_. It stands there, poised to gouge with its wicked horn gleaming in the hazy light of the day, with rancid heaving breaths that defile the air around them. Everyone seems to freeze, suddenly held in the fragile stagnation, afraid to so much as breathe and accidentally break the delicate peace that has cautiously settled.

It takes all of his admirable focus and control to hold back the volatile welling of magic that sings in his blood, and Magnus can see where Alec has half-reached for the spare seraph blade strapped to his thigh. The motion has been aborted in the face of the quivering beast before him, and his arm is poised in mid-air.

And the creature – once a rampaging, violent monster – ever so carefully bends its legs, curling them up underneath its body. Every muscle sags, as if suddenly exhausted, and the unicorn calmly lays its massive, sweaty head right in Alexander’s lap. A gusty, aggrieved sigh blows out from the beast’s nose and it relaxes right there, with its head resting in the lap of the New York Institute Head and surrounded by shadowhunters and werewolves and a warlock who are poised to kill.

Alec’s eyes flicker up to Magnus’ for just a second, but it’s long enough for the warlock to see the valiantly hidden fear, and concern, and confusion in the younger man’s gaze. He turns back to the unicorn almost immediately and, between one second and the next, comes to a decision. It would be so impossibly easy for him to grab his seraph blade and slit the monster’s throat, kill the beast in one fell swoop. Instead, his darling Alexander reaches out a trembling hand and rests it on the side of the creature’s head.

Right before their eyes, the unicorn _changes_. The pallid white fur darkens, until it is a dark brown, almost black, like that of rich soil and deep water. Its coat glimmers beautifully in the light, radiating the heat of the day like it is the sun itself. The rancid scent of death and decay fades, replaced with the fragrance of fresh growth in early spring, crisp air in the mountains, falling leaves and pine needles and oak sap. The unicorn raises its head and opens its eyes. Gone is the crazed deranged fury that had driven it through the streets of New York. Now, there is only a gentle serenity, a reclaimed peace that has inspired hundreds of years of legends and myths.

There is old, ancient, _unfathomable_ magic living within the creature. Perhaps even making up the entirety of it. And it’s _beautiful_. One of the most profound and breathtaking sights even Magnus has ever seen. Such power, such grace, such magic. Surely, a sight that only an angel could ever possibly rival. Tears spring to his eyes unbidden; he can hear a shadowhunter sobbing somewhere behind him.

But the unicorn, for all of its glory, does not hold his attention for long. Inevitably, unavoidably, inescapably his eyes land on Alexander. He breathes out a sigh of relief at the sight of his shadowhunter mostly unharmed, and his heart tightens at the tear tracks that shimmer on his cheeks. Both of his hands are now cradling the unicorn’s head, and both man and beast are staring into each other’s eyes, some unspoken understanding passing between them, as quiet as sunshine upon leaves and as gentle as the first unfurling of a flower bud.

And then the unicorn – released, redeemed, resurrected – draws itself up to its feet, like an oak that digs its root down deep and stretches to reach the sun. It rises like a tide, fathomless and endless, and then it dips its regal head in Alec’s direction. Between one heartbeat and the next, the creature turns just as the Earth upon its axis and it walks away. Each beat of its hoof leaves a sapling growing in the pavement beneath him. A gentle breeze carries the scent of citrus and minerals, the wind disturbs the unicorn’s hairs and its body dissolves into a silent flurry of petals and leaves. And then it’s gone. Just like that.

Nobody moves. Magic permeates the very air, oppressive and stifling. He feels like he’s moving through water – and, given his experience with magic, he’s certain that everyone else is fairing much worse than he is – but he pushes past the sensation and forces his legs to move. Alec is still collapsed on the ground, silent and immobile. Magnus makes it to his side and falls to his knees, reaching out his hands to rest them on Alexander’s shoulders. Once he makes contact, it’s as if a spell is broken, and the world snaps back into reality.

“Are you hurt?” he checks, even as he’s already running his magic over Alec and healing the minor bruises and scrapes littering his body. When his lover merely continues to stare at the space the unicorn vacated, Magnus lays one hand on Alec’s cheek, gently turning his head so that their eyes can meet. Tears cling to his eyelashes and there’s a tenderness to him that abruptly shatters Magnus’ heart.

“Did you hear it? What it said?” Alec asks quietly, valiantly attempting to tamp down on the wobble of his voice.

Magnus shakes his head.

“It said that we were the same,” he whispers.

_Corruption_ , the word bleeds into Magnus’ mind. The rampaging beast that had stampeded throughout the city had not been the _unicorn_. That had been a mere shade of the beautiful being, of the glorious beast who had stood before them and drawn tears to their eyes. It had been corrupted – how, Magnus does not know; through violence or cruelty similar to that inflicted by the creature’s own victims. Not dissimilar to the fate suffered by his own dear Alexander. Perhaps that is what the unicorn had needed – the touch of another gentle soul who had been so cruelly defiled – in order to purify its own existence, in order to heal, just as Alexander works at every single day.

(Admittedly, Magnus wishes that he had at least located _Thomas Hightower_ and thrown the bastard in front of the unicorn to be horrifically mauled before the creature was purified. But, alas. Perhaps next time.)

“Well, I do think you are absolutely magical, darling,” Magnus remarks, not even trying to bite back the cheeky grin that curls at his lips.

Alexander snorts, an inelegant sound that has Magnus nearly delirious nevertheless, and his watery grin is enough to send his heart racing. “That was so bad, Magnus,” he laughs.

Magnus stands and offers his hands, pulling Alec up beside him. He can hear the muffled crying of several shadowhunters and werewolves still overwhelmed by the lingering magic in the air, and Jace muttering out an unhelpful _‘what the fuck?’_ from somewhere behind him. Alec stares back at the intermittent trail of saplings now reclaiming the concrete jungle of New York. Magnus stands at his side, their shoulders brushing and their fingers laced between them.

“Okay, so that was weird, but my biggest question is why did it look like a bull?” Simon wonders. “Like, that’s pretty weird, right?”

Alec scoffs out a reluctant chuckle, and Magnus can’t help but join in.

Pretty weird, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warnings: some descriptions of violence and gore, references to past rape/child molestation, panic attacks.
> 
> I don't even know what this is? But I had an idea and I rolled with it. It was fun to write and I hope it was an enjoyable little read for you guys!
> 
> Minor note about linguistics: both the terms 'fae' and 'fey' are used. In my own conception of the word, 'fae' refers to the people and is synonymous to saying 'faeries' whereas 'fey' is an adjective applied to non-humanoid creatures and objects. 
> 
> ~PNGuin


End file.
